


Winter Killing

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:12:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your skin looks so soft in the mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Killing

**WINTER KILLING**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Sam/Dean; Dean/OFC  
 **WARNINGS** : spoilers for season two up to "Everybody Loves a Clown"

  
Your skin looks so soft in the mirror. It looks ashen, the white skin that stretches over muscle and sinew and bone, the white skin that ripples when you move, that straightens and spreads out, that unfolds. The white skin that looks perfect, the transparent haze of the mirror, the steam that collects in beads of perspiration, that drips and streaks, your skin looks so flawless. Your fingers brush along the curves of your bicep, the outline of muscle, stroking up, stroking down, your fingers brush along your arm, but it’s with weak familiarity. The black ink there, the shape of protection, your skin looks so pale around it, and you can remember touch, and you can remember warmth, but this just feels so wrong.

There’s a handprint streaked along the face of the mirror, a heavy imprint with smeared fingertips from where you wiped the steam off, from where you caught your reflection, your white skin, your black tattoo. And there are bruises on your face, the same color as your eyes, bruises that highlight your cheekbones, bruises that circle your chin, that kiss the corner of your mouth, bruises that split your lip. And there’s blood on your forehead, from some cut that’s re-opened, probably from the force of the water, probably from the hot shower, this tiny cut above your eyebrow.

And your skin still looks so soft.

You don’t know how you got here, your soft skin, your black tattoo, you don’t know what the water just felt like gushing against your body, but you can imagine, the weight as you close your eyes and tilt your head back, the taste of tap water in your mouth. And you don’t know when you wrapped this towel around your waist, but you can pretend, the scratchy cotton against your white thighs, this perfect skin, so soft, the press of it as it sticks and stays tied. You don’t know how long it’s been, since the fight, since your father, you don’t know what happened between here and there, you don’t remember undressing and you don’t remembering cleaning the filth off your body, the ash, the blood, your perfect skin. And you don’t know where Sam is, but you can guess, the low hum of the TV just outside the door, the flickering blue light under the crack, this bathroom is ancient and dirty, and you can’t even remember how long you’ve been in here, standing here like this.

You can’t even remember why you’ve been so transfixed on your damp skin, this flawless expanse of white, it’s so soft, and you can’t even remember how you got to this point here, the mirror and your handprint, this moist steam. These bruises on your face, the ache in your joints, the pain that blooms as your roll your shoulder, as you lean all of your weight on your right ankle, nothing’s broken, but there might as well be. And you can’t even remember how you got hurt, some fight, yes, some demon or ghost or vampire or something, probably, but everything’s such a blur. Everything’s just gone.

And your skin still looks so soft.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, one that has you curling your hands into fists, one that has you crouching low in a fighting stance, just in case, wondering if you even locked it, wondering if you’re not just fucking crazy for being this on edge. Your instincts, all your stupid habits, well, you’ll be a hunter until the day you die, and maybe that isn’t as much of a good thing as you always thought, maybe this isn’t such a blessing. This knock, it’s a gentle rap of knuckles against old wood, the rusted hinges that creak with pressure, and Sam’s voice filters through, rough, tired, Sam’s voice saying, “Dean?” This feeling of a hand pressing hard against the door, this feeling of heat, Sammy’s hand, this warmth, stretched out and poised like he’s reaching for you, and, hey, maybe you are going crazy, maybe you really are fucking nuts. Sam’s voice, he’s saying, “Dean, are you okay?”

Sam’s voice, he’s saying, “Dean?”

And it’s hard to even decipher what he’s saying, because these words seem so foreign to you, this uneven voice, exhausted and deep, scratchy, and you can’t even remember what these words mean. You can’t even remember what it feels like to speak English, the words that fumble around in your mouth, your teeth clicking together, and you’re trying to say something back, trying to answer, but you don’t think you even know how to open your mouth. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this numb before, you can’t remember it, anyway, the steam that’s slowly dissipating, the heat that’s shrinking away, you can’t even remember what it felt like before, that warmth, and your shoulders start shaking with shivers. Sammy’s voice, and your eyes are staring back at you hard in the mirror, these black-rimmed eyes, the bags underneath, the sleepless nights you can’t really remember, the little bottle of pills that sit silently on the corner of the sink, ready to be swallowed. Sammy’s voice, and the goose bumps that are rising across your flesh, striking your arms, these muscles here, this sinew, this bone, the skin that stretches across, so perfect.

Sam’s voice, he’s saying, “Dean?” His knuckles rapping louder and louder on the wood, he’s saying, “Dean? What’s wrong?”

And your mouth just does not want to obey, the cut on your lip stretching and pulling, opening again so the blood that spills drips down over your chin, over your bruises, so that you can feel the throbbing veins beneath. So that you can wince, your hard eyes and the way that they soften with pain, the way they squeeze tight together, you can’t remember if you’ve ever felt this pain before, this throbbing, this tightening of skin, you can’t remember, but you can pretty much put two and two together. Sammy’s voice, and you press your fingers as hard as you can in to your split lip, on to your bruises, the highlighted cheekbone, the circled chin, you press hard and harder and you can’t ever remember wanting to do this as much as you do right now.

Sammy’s voice, his hard knock against the door, if he’s not careful, he’s gonna break it down any time now, his worried voice, the urgency there, and you don’t know if he’s ever sounded like this before. You can’t remember, anyway. Sam’s voice, and he’s almost screaming now, the door aching with his weight, with his pressure, the door that’s creaking and groaning, and, even though you can’t remember, even though you don’t know about any of this. The fight you had, your father, the bruises on your face, even though this all seems so new to you, Sammy’s voice behind the door, his knuckles, they must be bloody by now, and you’re just so fucking tired of this. You’re just so fucking numb right now.

These things you don’t know, and you’re saying, “Nothing’s wrong, Sam.” Your hard green eyes, the pain there, the bruises, these bloody cuts, your forehead, your mouth, you roll your eyes at your own reflection in the mirror, at yourself. And you’re saying, “I’m fine.” Your stupid melodrama, you’re saying, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

The cold that washes over you, this damp air, the steam that’s almost all the way gone from the mirror, creeping further and further away from your reflection, creeping further and further away from you, and you’re just such a fucking liar. Your green eyes staring back at you, you’re saying, “I’m fine.” You’re saying, “Really.” Your stupid eyes, Sam’s bated breath, the warmth of his palm against the wood of the door, you’re saying, “Everything’s fine.”

And your skin still looks so soft.

***

The day Sammy runs away to Stanford, the day you watch him take the bus to California, his bright eyes and the way he just can’t look at you, your father leans back against the Impala and talks about family. It’s funny, because, these days, your father’s hand is never that far from a bottle, the neck he wraps his fingers around, the sweat that drips down his palms, the label that peels away clean, it’s funny because what does he know about normal? Your father, he’s talking about Sammy living his own life, Sammy going out and creating this sense of normalcy that someone like you could never have, your father, you here, Sammy going out and living his dreams just like every other boy in the world. Your father, he’s saying something about you being different, you being the strong one. Your father, he’s saying, You’re the hero here, Dean.

And you’re just so fucking tired of all of this.

Your father, he’s saying, You’re the one that’s gonna take all of this over. When I die, his eyes, the way he tips the bottle into his mouth, the beer that goes down smooth, that goes down cold, he’s saying, When I’m gone, you’re the one that’ll finish this right. Like this is some kind of legacy or something, some kind of birthright. This, his wrinkles and the way he’s just getting so much older, the way he’s just so drained from all of this, this hunting, this killing, being the savior that nobody ever even knows about, this here, like this is all just some kind of inheritance.

Your father, he’s saying, You’re the one that’s gonna make me so proud.

The day Sammy runs away to Stanford, it rains for hours. Your father stands outside against the car and goes through half a pack of cigarettes before he speaks, ignoring the chill that sweeps down both of your backs, the water that pools in your boots, soaking your jeans and your shirt and your hair. Your father blinks through the water that catches on his eyelashes, that hides the tears on his cheeks, and he talks about the open road, all those places you’ve seen. Your father, he’s saying, You’re the one who’s gonna travel the world someday. Sammy and his boring little nine to five life, Sammy and his stupid dreams, your father, he’s saying, You’re the one who will have a story to tell.

Your father, his wet face, the cigarette that dangles between his lips, the smoke that climbs in a halo above his head, he’s saying, But don’t worry, Dean. His hands trembling in his jacket pockets, the way he just can’t stop the tears on his face, he’s saying, Don’t worry. He’s saying, Everything will all work out. He’s saying, Everything will all be okay.

And you can remember the feel of the rain, and you can remember the feel of the Impala pressed tight against your back, your hands slick as they splay out across the top of the hood, your hands black with the feel of mud, with the feel of dust from those dirty roads. And you can remember the warmth of your father’s shoulder touching yours, the warmth as he shivers and draws those cigarettes further into his mouth, the smoke that drifts above his head. And you can remember the way he tilted his head back as he drank, the green bottle against his blue mouth, the way his tears fell like rain, the day Sammy runs away to Stanford, you can remember how your father tried to hide his sobs in beer bottles and soggy cigarettes, the way he tried to mask his tears with the rain.

And you can remember his voice, strangely dry, strangely rough, his mouth wavering as he says, But don’t worry, Dean. His wet face, that rain, those tears, as he says, I’ll never leave you.

***

Sam finds a case in some small town in Oklahoma. You don’t ask him how. America’s Heartland, this mass of mountain ranges, all these goddamn tumbleweeds, all these dusty roads and old ghost towns, it reminds you so much of Kansas that you drive with your eyes straight, glued to the road, Sam’s worried glances from the passenger seat. You drive with dark sunglasses and a signature frown line, and the way Sam starts and stops conversation, you don’t say a word until you hit the panhandle. Out here, there’s static on the radio and no cars in sight. Out here, there’s nothing to answer you but the howling of the wind.

Sam reads to you from your father’s journal, news of old Dust Bowl victims, news of passing Native American figures on lonely stretches of road, all these haunted farmhouses that are sold and bought and sold again. And your case is one of a young family, the pretty pregnant homemaker Sally kind of wife, delicate freckles and bare feet as she comes out to greet you both, her patterned dress and the way she rests her hand over her swollen belly, she smiles and says her name is Beth. She has chipped white teeth, her face is red from the sun, and she cups her forehead with her other hand, saying she left her sunhat in the kitchen, saying, “You boys want some pie or something?” Saying, “Hey, I just made a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies.” Her crooked smile, her scrunched face, saying, “You both could use some fattening up.” This wide front porch, the rocking chairs swaying in the dusty wind, her painted toenails dark against the white wood, she can’t be much older than Sammy.

She can’t be much older than your own mother when she was pregnant with you.

Her husband should be home any time now, and, really, he’s the one who called, he’s the one who’s been getting the messages, the ones telling him to get out of the house and never come back. They just appear, she says, stirring up a pot of lemonade, scooping out spoonfuls of sugar from a big clay jar on the counter. She spends all day sweeping up the dust and dirt from the smooth wooden floors and when her husband leaves for work, there it is, carved at the bottom of the stairs in big block letters, those messages that never seem to be there when she wakes up. Gathering up her golden blonde hair in a thick ponytail, away from her long neck, she says, “I thought he was crazy until the tugging started.” The tugging on her long, soft hair, the tugging that starts with no one behind her, when she’s washing dishes in the sink or going down to the basement to fetch a jar of apple butter, the tugging that turns into braids the longer she lets it go on. The washcloth she throws over her shoulder, her hands are dry from the soapy water, and she says, “It’s not like it’s annoying, really.” The way she smiles at you both, her accent, the way she curls her vowels, saying, “It’s not like I mind it, honest.”

The slow turns of the ceiling fan, the dry heat that sears your skin, that makes your shirt stick to your chest, Beth drags her arm across her forehead to wipe the sweat away, saying, “Actually.” Saying, “Really, it’s kind of sweet.”

Saying, “Really.” The way she smells just like warm apple pie, she’s saying, “Really. Until Charlie went missing.” The golden retriever. Right.

Beth’s husband owns the gas station down the road a couple miles, drives his old Buick to work, the one that sputters and coughs and threatens to die one of these days, the one that makes him eye the shine of the Impala, green with envy. The one that lets out a groan as he comes up the driveway, that squeaks as he turns off the engine, opens and shuts the door. Beth’s husband, he’s tall and lanky, but built solid with muscles from years of hard work on his momma’s farm, years and years of stacking hay and picking corn from the fields, the hot noonday sun that’s baked his skin to the perfect golden brown. Beth’s husband, his name’s Joseph, and he glares at you hard from underneath the brim of his cowboy hat, his blue eyes, they’re cold enough to wipe the smile from your face. Beth’s husband, he chews tobacco as he talks, spits occasionally into the silver tin at his feet, saying, “You boys hunt ghosts?” His hard face, the sharp jaw line, his rough hands, callused and yellow like the soles of your feet, he says, “And just how old are you, now?”

Sammy and his kind eyes, he says, “Old enough, sir.” That kiss-ass tone in his voice, that sweet smile, those dimples on his cheeks, Beth looks like she just wants to eat him right up, and Joseph’s mouth is moving faster and faster the harder he chews. Sammy and his hands steepled together, he’s holding back the urge to scratch at his collar, the nice choir boy checkered shirt he’s wearing, he says, “We’ve been doing this a long time.”

Too long, the comment goes unsaid.

You breathe out through your nose, loud, suddenly tired of this, all of this runaround, this proving you’re the real deal heroes kind of bullshit. Ghosts with a penchant of pulling hair and killing dogs, really, give you a Woman in White any day, a shape shifter, give you a fucking Wendigo, seriously, it’d be a hell of a lot more interesting than this. Really, seriously, give you a yellow-eyed demon. Than you’d really be having some fun.

Sam looks over at you in annoyance, raising his eyebrow, scrunching his face, as you say, “Hey.” As you say, “Listen.” The way you hold your hand up, defensive, the way Joseph spits a wad of tobacco dangerously close to your leather boots, you say, “If you don’t want our help, we’ve got plenty more ghosts to take care of.” Rolling your eyes, setting your mouth in this signature frown line, clenching your teeth as hard as you can, you’re saying, “You’re not the only people with problems, you know.”

And Beth’s face falls just like you predicted it to, that desperate look that she perfects, the way her hands spread out wide on the top of her swollen belly, the way her eyes begin to water, she’s about to cry and well, little Sammy just can’t have that. He sidles closer to her, hands hovering unsteady over her shoulder, like he wants to gather her in a hug to him, and he says, “Oh, hey.” His soft voice, the way he bites his lip, unsure, he’s saying, “Don’t worry, Beth.” Saying, “Dean didn’t mean it, honest. We’re gonna help you out here, we’re gonna do everything we can.” Rubbing the sleeve of her patterned dress up, down, up, he’s saying, “Please don’t cry.”

And Joseph’s looking at you like he wants to run you over with his old Buick, the smoke that’ll come out in plumes, the way the tires will screech, and you feel like shrugging and looking like you don’t care, but you settle on breathing out again, turning away to look at the dust clouds that pass by the window. Sam and his serious face, he looks like he wants to hurt you too, but for different reasons, for those things you can’t seem to find the words for. The way he just knows you. The way the two of them crowd around Beth, her puffy eyes, her trembling bottom lip, bee stung and plush red, you don’t know what’s wrong with you, you don’t know why you just don’t care anymore, but everything feels like somebody held down the slow motion button for too long, like everything’s just all wrong.

Sam and his gentle voice, he’s saying, “Everything will be okay.”

***

Later, after Sam grabs your arm hard enough to leave individual finger-shaped bruises that wrap around your bicep, that break your smooth skin, this expanse of white, later, after Sam calls you names and you stand there stoically, mouth shut, fists clenched tight together. Later, when you burn the bones of some poor boy into ashes, this boy that stuck around even after he died of pneumonia, his temper tantrums, the way he just seemed to have a little too much of an Oedipal complex, later, when you stand in the dirty bathroom of Joseph’s gas station, wet from rain and gasoline. The cracked mirror above the cheap sink, the smell of dust and ash and fire, the smell of burning flesh that’s seared your nostrils, but not from here, not from now, not this time, the way you just can’t stop looking at your eyes, your smooth skin. The way you just can’t stop looking, the cracked glass that breaks your face apart, the dim light of the overhead phosphorescents, the low hum, and later, when you dare yourself to cry, but it just never seems to come, the rumble of thunder that starts wavering outside the door. This sweet summer storm.

This is just so perfect, but you’re old enough to realize that not everything will go back to normal. You’re old enough to realize that nothing will stay the same, Sammy’s martyrdom, your mom routine, the way you used to take care of everyone, both of them, the way you used to sacrifice everything you had. The way you used to worry and worry, how you’ll make enough money to buy Sammy some milk for his cereal, how you’ll keep your father out of the hospitals from all those missions he throws himself into, all those suicide attempts. All those people he tries to save, when his family is right here dying before his eyes. When his family is right here, falling apart.

Later, you’re old enough to realize that you’ll never have it that good again.

***

The day Sammy runs away to Stanford, your father drags you to a tattoo shop in the ass end of a local bar and tells you to pick out something that’ll save your life one of these days, help you fight off demons or ghosts or curses or something, that’ll help you fight the good fight. And, hey, something that’ll look good, too. You flip through your father’s journal for inspiration as the old guy behind the counter rolls up his sleeve to flaunt the faded ink there, the blemished and pockmarked skin broken by anchors and eagles and Semper Fi, blue and red and white swallows, black spider webs eating away at his elbows.

Later, you’ll remember the way your father gripped your arm as he drew on your skin. The way the pen trembled in his fingers as he traced the outline, as he colored and shaded, as he brought the tip of the pen to his tongue to get the ink flowing again. And, later, you’ll remember the way the dark lines looked against your pale flesh, the way you stood in front of the mirror for a solid hour, turning and pivoting and turning again, searching for the perfect angle, searching for any kind of flaw. Your father’s handwriting on you, his hands on your skin, your father’s eyes on the black curves as he wraps his hand around a bottle of beer and brings it up to his mouth, swallowing once, twice, three times, swallowing, before he smiles and winks at you, proud.

Later, you’ll remember how the needle felt running against your skin, the way your father gave you two, maybe three, shots of whiskey to calm your nerves, to numb you up, his little smile, pointing to his tattoos, that faded ink there. Later, you’ll remember laying face down on the chair, this backroom of the shittiest bar in town, the old guy behind the counter with his latex gloves and little bottles of blue and black ink, the way he grins with all his rotten teeth. Later, you’ll remember the way your father’s hand stayed shock still against your other arm, for support or something else, for confidence he might not think you have.

The old guy and his yellow teeth, he tells stories as he works, his hands moving fast, moving quick, and his mouth moving the same exact speed, and he talks of missions in the Marine Corps, talks of serving in Korea, all those dead boys that look so much like you. All those dead boys, and your father and his solemn face, he sits beside you and holds back tears. Your father and his solemn face, he sits beside you and squeezes your arm, for strength or something else, for the confidence you think he might not have.

The day Sammy runs away to Stanford, you pick out an old Native American protection symbol from your father’s journal, from the same page about the Wendigo, his drawings there, his sweep of black vertical lines, of slow curves. You pick out something from the old Apache tribes, maybe Cherokee or Navajo, maybe something your father thought would help you one day, would save you. Maybe something your father thought would help you remember him by, and your father’s fingers circling your arm, circling the lines of black ink, of blue ink, maybe this is something your father thought would keep you alive. “This won’t work on everything,” he says, squeezing your arm, this pulsating rhythm that lulls you into equanimity, that takes your mind off the needles. “This won’t work on most of the stuff out there,” his quick glance to the old guy, his quick glance of pale skin and yellow teeth, hands hard at work, saying, “So don’t rely on it, Dean.” His mouth saying, “Don’t bet your life on it.”

And later, you’ll remember the moment it was finished, the way the feeling of pain slowly subsided, the way it ebbed into cold, into numb, with your father’s warm hand still gripping your arm. With your father’s solemn face, the way he squeezes, the way he smiles faintly, winks, the way he’s so proud of you. And later, when your father rubs the antiseptic on, the slow strokes of his fingertips on blistered ink, later when he takes you back to the hotel room and lets you sink in to the softest sleep you’ll ever have, the light that spills from the bathroom door when your father goes to wash the dirt from his face. The smell of cigarettes that drifts over you, the smell of cologne and whiskey and beer, the smell of your father’s shaving cream.

Later, the sound of his voice washing over you, even in your sleep, even as you lay still, calm, dead to the world, your father’s voice rough like gravel, even as he says, You’re the hero here, Dean, you’re the savior.

The day Sammy runs away to Stanford, the day your father leaves his mark on you, his protection, maybe so you’ll always be safe, maybe so you’ll always remember him, he stands above your bed, blocking the light that filters through your closed eyes. The light that penetrates your eyelids, your veins there, the color of your blood, blocking all of that, and your father smells exactly like you’ve always remembered, exactly like he should, the pack of cigarettes he hides in his back pocket, the waft of cologne he can never hide. Your father and his voice, rough, uneven, as he says, You’ll be the one to pull all of this together, Dean. Saying, You’ll be the one that finishes this thing.

The day Sammy runs away to Stanford, the day your father starts acting like he’s never gonna come back, like he’ll never see you ever again, your father and his fingers brushing over the bandage on your arm, brushing over your protection, soft, and he’s saying, You’ll be the one to save us all, Dean.

Saying, You’ll be the one to make everything all right again.

***

The next case, you come back broken. It’s your fault, really, but it’s Sam who’s jamming the keys into the ignition, muttering softly to himself, whispering, “Oh shit oh shit oh shit,” as he starts the engine, as you lay in the passenger seat bleeding, dying. The blood that smears the upholstery, the black leather of the seat, there are red handprints on the dashboard, red handprints all over the window, and it’s all your fault, really, but you’ve bitten your tongue so hard, you can’t even speak. It’s Sam who’s pressing on the gas hard enough that the tires screech on the pavement, it’s Sam who’s breathing stiff, breathing loud, looking in the rearview, eyes wide, frightened. It’s Sam who lets out a whimper, something close enough to how bad you’re feeling, the scratches on his cheek, the blood in his eyes, the cut on his forehead, it’s all just superficial, nothing a couple of stitches couldn’t fix, but Sam’s eyes in the rearview, wild, he’s not worried about himself. Sam’s quick glance to you, your hand on your stomach, all this blood, Sam sets his mouth, blinks through his tears, and presses his foot down harder.

It was your fault, really, this legend about a den of werewolves, something your father used to tell you, this bedtime story, something right out of his journal, and you just couldn’t let it go, could you? This fairy tale, it was something your father used to promise you he’d look into one of these days, when you’re big and strong just like him, when you’re old enough to go on missions, when you’re old enough to start solving cases. This stupid myth, this stupid hunt, it’s all your fault. Really. Seriously.

Later, you’ll remember the day Sam comes to you with a werewolf sighting in Michigan, somewhere around the Great Lakes, somewhere near some caves, in some forest that sounds awfully familiar. Later, you’ll remember your frantic search through your father’s journal, flipping the brittle pages fast, flipping hard, past the Wendigo, past the protection symbol on your skin, and later, you’ll remember your great sigh of relief when you find it, the same story your father used to tell you late at night. The same story that used to make you shiver underneath the covers, your father’s deep voice, rough, like gravel, your father’s sweet smile as tells you that it’s alright, as he tells you that, Hey, someday, you’re gonna find those bastards. As he rubs a hand on your arm, as he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, as he says, Someday, you’re gonna find them and kill each and every one.

Sam doesn’t remember it, of course, like most of his childhood, like most of what you did to take care of him, but you do, you remember everything, and that’s all that really matters. That’s all that really counts. Sam doesn’t remember the way your father used to balance the journal on his lap like a storybook, the lit cigarette in his mouth, tip burning bright red in the golden light, the way he used to blow plumes of smoke above his head, above yours, the smell that still sears your nostrils. The covers pulled up to your chin, the way he’d smile wide, blow rings of smoke through his open mouth, this smell that shows up sometimes when you’re alone, when you can still feel his presence, like he never even died, like you never even burned his body, like maybe he’s still around. The smell of burning embers, the taste of ash in your mouth, this feeling, like, hey, maybe he might have some unfinished business, after all. Sam and his stupid pipe dreams, the way he just can’t think about this, the way he just has to move on, the way you just can’t, Sam says you’re fucking nuts.

The next case, you tell Sam the story your father always told you, this den of werewolves, this pack that always stayed in the same exact forest, the same exact cave, somewhere in Michigan, somewhere near Holland. You tell Sam about a small little town that provides them shelter, that buries their secret, this den of werewolves that only feeds on criminals and lowlifes, this town’s own little form of capital punishment. You tell Sam about this pack, this family, you tell Sam that this is the one thing your father never got to do before he died. This smell of cigarettes searing your nostrils, the darkened sky, you tell Sam that this is his unfinished business, that this is what he wants.

You tell Sam that this, this pack of werewolves, this den, somewhere in Michigan, this little town, this smell of cigarettes swallowing you like your father never left, the way you just can’t escape this, you tell Sam that this is your fucking legacy. You tell Sam that this is your fucking fate.

And later, you’ll remember the way your brother looked at you, like he didn’t want to believe, like he just couldn’t wrap his head around it, like, hey, maybe, he just didn’t want to put your lives on the line for this, this stupid charade. Later, you’ll remember the way Sam chewed on his bottom lip, the dimples that caught on his cheeks, later, Sam’s unsure face, the way he doesn’t think he can trust you, the way he’s just not sure about anything anymore. His fingers picking absently at his clothes, the stray threads there, the way he just can’t let this go, the way he just can’t bring this all up again. Later, you’ll remember the way he averted his gaze when he said yes, shrugging, acquiescent, the way he just can’t look you in the eyes anymore.

And later, you’ll remember the feel of your brother’s hand pushing hard against your gaping stomach, pushing hard against the rush of blood, the tide that comes with those surges of pain, the blood that seeps through fingers, through the cloth of your shirt and whatever Sam could spare. You’ll remember the way he ran his hand through his hair, later, the splotches of red that dotted his forehead and his cheeks, the smears that ran over his mouth like lipstick. Later, you’ll remember the taste of copper on your tongue, strong, as you gathered enough strength to cough, to take in a deep breath, this feeling of your chest tightening and tightening, this feeling like you’ll never be able to breathe again. And you’ll remember the way Sam’s hair tickled your cheek as he bent down to listen to your ragged breathing, to your faint heartbeat, you’ll remember the sharp intake of air through his teeth, this whistling sound, something he heard, something he didn’t like, his ear pressed hard against your chest, his hands still on your stomach. Sam’s lips resting briefly against the skin above your heart.

Later, you’ll remember Sam’s voice, like your father’s, this sweet smell of cigarettes staining your nose, Sam’s voice rough, like gravel, Sam’s voice saying, “Please, Dean.” His lips moving seconds before you hear his voice, seconds before he’s saying anything, your vision growing darker, Sam’s face getting fuzzier and fuzzier, he’s saying, “Don’t you dare die on me.” He’s saying, “Dean.” He’s saying, “Please.”

And later, Sam’s hands on you as he moves you to the car, this pack of werewolves behind you, this den just like your father always told you about, later, as Sam slides you into the Impala’s leather seats, these red handprints everywhere, this blood seeping into everything, you’re getting colder and colder. Sam cursing beside you, peeling out, screeching the tires on the road, later, as Sam checks the rearview, eyes wide, scared, this blood all over his face, you remember what it feels like to die, the cold that overtakes you, the gray color of your skin, this smell of burning ashes, of cigarettes you’ve never even smoked. Later, you’ll remember what it felt like to just give up, your hand moving slowly towards Sam’s, your eyes getting dimmer, your vision growing dark, later, you’ll remember what it felt like to just finally be able to let go.

Your voice nothing louder than a whisper, Sam’s hand hot under yours, like he could burn your skin, you’re saying, Don’t worry. Your eyes slipping closed, your face growing numb, you can’t even feel the wound in your stomach anymore, and you’re saying, Don’t worry, Sammy. You’re saying, It’s okay.

And later, your father’s voice in your ears, you’ll remember what a big fucking liar you are.

***

After your father dies, after you strike out with Jo, the first girl you sleep with is a waitress named Candy. She has golden blonde hair and tight clothes, everything you could ask for, a sweet cherry red mouth, bowed, when she goes to kiss you, leaving lipstick stains on your collar. Dragging her finger down the length of your shirt, down the middle right where a tie should be, she smiles and promises you that she’ll give you something good enough to write home about, fluttering one eye shut to wink at you, the black fan of her eyelashes. The way she chews on her bottom lip, the way she pouts up at you, her fingers sliding over your shirt, sliding buttons through white threaded holes, this soft cotton. She says, “Don’t worry.” Raking her nails down your naked chest, these fire engine red acrylics, the way she presses just hard enough to hurt, she says, “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you.”

And it’s funny because you never were a big fan of clichés.

And it’s funny, because, these smooth feminine hands sliding down your callused skin, her pretty mouth, soft, the way she kisses you, it’s funny because this isn’t even close to being who you want.

***

You guess you just never realized how good Bobby is with a needle and a spool full of thread. You feel like you ought to make a joke here, your teeth chattering as he feeds you another sip of whiskey to fight the fever, to numb you up real good, his bloody fingers, your glazed eyes. You feel like you ought to say something smart, but Sammy shifts your head in his lap, his cool hands sweeping wide across your hot face, the sweat that bleeds from your forehead, your damp hair, and, besides, you can’t say anything with this block of wood in your mouth. Sammy’s wide eyes above you, he’s trying hard not to look at the mess of your stomach, the deep gashes there, the claw marks, and, boy, do you wanna go and kick some werewolf ass, the scratches on Sam’s face, the blood that’s crusted over on his eyelashes.

Bobby draws in a deep breath and tells you not to move, this serious tone in his voice, the way he’s set his jaw, he’s saying, “You can go ahead and scream.” Running scissors down the middle of your shirt, peeling the sticky sides away from your chest, he’s laying dry hands over your ribs, checking for damage, the way he looks you right in the eye, he’s saying, “Because this is gonna hurt like a bitch.”

Sam gets a hold of your hands to keep them away from your stomach, but they’re bloody enough that he has to squeeze and clamp down tight, has to dig his fingernails in your palms so he can get a grip, so you’ll have something to focus on other than the sharp pain of the needle, the sting of the antiseptic. Bobby didn’t have any painkillers, or at least didn’t know where they were, but you weren’t too worried about that because Sam was still freaking out when he carried you up the rotting steps of the porch, calling out Bobby’s name as loud as he could. You weren’t too worried about that because Sammy was holding your attention, whispering some words that were probably meant to be soothing, probably meant to be something else besides the panicky tone that they were, Sam’s bottom lip bloody and ragged, bitten raw, his voice hoarse. And Sam’s keeping the whiskey bottle by your head, something to feed you when the pain gets worse, when the needle starts to slip in over and over again, when the thread starts tugging, something that he hopes will help you slowly slide into sleep, so you won’t have to feel this anymore.

Honestly, though, this is funny, because with all this shit you’ve been through, you’re amazed you’re even still alive.

And, honestly, though, this is just so goddamn funny because all you can hear, Bobby’s lips moving, telling you to hold still, telling you not to move, Sam’s mouth whispering comfort into your ear, really, all you can hear is your father’s dying words. Your father, as you try so hard to hold still, Sammy’s hands pressing your arms down, his elbows on your shoulder, your father, as you gasp in pain, as you tilt your chin up in Sam’s lap, these tears rolling down your cheeks, your father saying, “Dean.”

Your father saying, “I’m sorry.”

And, honestly, though, the way Bobby slides the needle into the ragged edges of your skin, the way Sammy squeezes your hands tight, squeezes hard enough that you’re sure he’s breaking the skin there, that he’s making his mark on your palms with the crescent moons of his nails. And, honestly, though, the way your teeth are still chattering, the cold chills that run through your body, the way you just can’t do this anymore, the way you just can’t. Not like this, not anymore, not when you’re just so fucking done with risking your life for people who don’t give two shits about you, for people who have no idea what you go through to get here, for people who only know your name when you fail. This is all just such bullshit, and you’re wondering when you ever decided to start following your father blindly enough that you couldn’t see what this was doing to you, that you couldn’t see what this was doing to him.

Sammy and his hands on you, Sam had the right idea about all of this, Sam knew what he was doing, knew what he could take, knew what he should give up. Sam knew when to walk away, and, honestly, you’re so proud of him for that. Honestly, you’re so glad that he could just walk away that clean, that he could get a taste of what was out there, what will be waiting for him when this is all over with. You’re just so glad that he gathered that much courage, that he was that strong.

Sam feeding you more sips of whiskey, Bobby telling you that you’re doing a good job, that you’re almost done now, that this is almost over, all of this, this stupid act of martyrdom. This stupid mistake. And your father, you can still see his face, the way he smiled at you, the way his stubble felt against your cheek as he leaned in, as he told you that stupid secret, the way his hand rested lightly on your face, your father, the way you can still hear his voice. The way you can still smell those cigarettes, his sweet cologne, the spice of his shaving cream, the way you’ll just never be able to forget him, for as long as you live.

And your father saying, “I just want you to know,” his mouth moving just like Bobby’s, just like Sammy’s, his mouth hovering over you, the way he closes his eyes, the way he just can’t stop the tears from spilling down his cheeks, the stubble there, the way his hand feels on your shoulder, above your tattoo, above your protection. Bobby’s telling you that you’re doing great, Sammy and his words of comfort, Sammy and his stupid ways of helping you, the crescent moons he’s left to scar on your palms, Sammy’s telling you that you’ll be out of this soon, but you and the image of your father standing over your face, you’re not sure you want to. This image of your father smiling at you, the tears that catch on his mouth, the way he breathes out, hard, this feeling of air pushing against your bloodstained cheek. And, honestly, this feeling of your father’s fingers running soft along your forearm, his wavering smile, the way he brushes the tears away from your face, honestly, you just don’t want him to leave.

Your father saying, “I just want you to know,” his breath hitching above you, this smell of cigarettes, he’s saying, “That I am so proud of you.”

And Bobby’s face above yours, scouring the image of your father, his bright smile, he says, “You’re all done now, Dean.” Sammy’s hands on you, squeezing tight, squeezing hard, Sammy shifting your head out of his lap, Bobby’s saying, “You did perfect.” These tears on your face, these tears running through the streaks of blood, yours, Sam’s, Sammy’s saying, “It’s all over now.”

Sammy’s saying, “You did such a good job.”

Sammy’s saying, “I’m so proud of you.”

***

It takes maybe a week or two to heal. Bobby says that stomach wounds are always the worst, all those delicate internal organs, the soft skin there, and it hurts like a bitch every time you move, shift your weight to sit up or bend over, it hurts so bad that the first few times you can’t help but puke. It hurts so bad, you find yourself waking up with Sam’s hands on your shoulders, your shirt a mess of bloodstains and vomit, with Sammy close to tears because you’ve scared him so much. Those times you black out, you don’t even remember what you dreamed about, but when you wake up, Sammy and his frown above you, the way his bottom lip quivers, when you wake up, you smell cigarette smoke. You smell your father’s sweet cologne.

It takes maybe a week or two to heal, and maybe it’s not so bad, with Sammy there to feed you ice chips and spoonfuls of warm chicken soup, homemade with Bobby’s own special ingredients, but sometimes the itching just gets to be too much, the way you just want to climb outside, if only to touch the steering wheel of the Impala, if only to feel the cool breeze against your skin. Maybe it’s not so bad, but it sure feels like it, the way you just can’t stand reading these books anymore, these leather-bound books talking about haunted houses and vampire lore, Greek mythology, and this is really more Sam’s speed than yours. These spell books, all this research, this is really not your thing at all, and laying here in Bobby’s guest room, these itchy sheets, propped up on lumpy pillows, the way your stomach tinges with pain every time you move, maybe this isn’t so bad, but it kinda feels like you’re dying.

Between the jobs that Bobby finds, the small ones, haunted rectory here, exorcism there, between that and working on the cars in the yard, Sammy finds time to spend with you. He brings you Sudoku books in the beginning, at first, which you try once, and then manage to haphazardly throw across the room, this pain in your stomach, the hard thud that makes Sam wince, then sigh aloud through his nose. After that, Sam starts telling you stories about his days at Stanford, the college parties, the drunken tales, the long sleepless nights of studying, and the way he looks fond when he talks about Jess, the way he clenches his jaw, the way he tries his best to hold back tears, you were never glad about your decision to take all of that away from him. Especially now, especially since you realized what a big waste this past year has been, searching for a father that never wanted to be found, searching for something you’d just lose in the end, anyway.

You never wanted Sammy to give up his dreams, not like you, not like your father. You never wanted Sammy to have to go through what you did, the realization that you’ll never get what you want, that you’ll never become who you want to be, you never wanted Sammy to feel that. You never wanted Sammy to have to settle for second best, no matter what the cost was, no matter who you would lose in the process.

These words on the tip of your tongue, this pain in your stomach, you’re not happy about it, the way it hurts to draw in air, the way your eyes water every time you look at Sam, you’re not happy about it, but this is your own personal act of martyrdom here. You’re not happy about it, but this is your own personal demon.

Sam and his stories of a life you’ll never know, he sleeps next to you at night, tucked against your side, just like he used to when you were kids, those nights your father would leave to go on hunts, those nights he would leave you in charge. Sammy sleeps with his hands curled around your arm, his head still on your shoulder, the way his hair tickles your cheek every time it moves from the fan’s rotations above, every time he breathes in and out, just like when you were kids, just like those nights you’d stay up and watch him sleep. Just like those nights you used to dream of a future that was so different from this, that was actually normal.

Sam and his stories of college, of all those pretty girls, Sam and his stories of asshole professors, lecture halls, shitty cafeteria food, those late night parties that last until four or five the next morning, Sam and his normal life. That night you showed up on his doorstep in California, that night you ruined his life, you’re not happy about it, the way Sam just gave up everything, the way you just led the demon to his girlfriend, the way you just killed her like that, this taste of fire and ash in your mouth, you’re not happy about it, but that was the worst day of your life.

Sam and the way his breath feels against your skin, these tiny little puffs of air, the way his lips rest on the hollow of your neck, the way you just can’t do this anymore, the way you just can’t let him live this life, just can’t let him down again. Not like this, not again, not anymore. The way you just can’t keep lying to him, those times you wake up with Sam standing over you, so scared, so worried about you, the way you just can’t do this to him anymore, just can’t keep dragging him around. Sam and the way he strives for normalcy, for some kind of balance, some kind of habit and routine, Sam just wants to be a part of the same world as everybody else, just wants that crappy marriage and nine to five job like the rest of the world, and you can’t keep dangling this in front of him just to watch him fall. You can’t keep him away from the only thing he wants, even if that means you’ll be alone.

Even if that means he’ll leave you again.

Sammy and his stupid dreams, his stupid little view of the world, the way he thinks everything works, the way he just knows, you’re not happy about it, but you have to let him go. Even if that means you’ll never get what you want.

***

The first time Sam kisses you, you’re half-asleep. This pain in your stomach, the way you’ve been running a fever, coughing up blood into the tissues you hide underneath your pillow just so Sammy won’t get so worried again, the first time Sam ever kisses you, you’re dreaming about fire and blood and ash, bleach white bones stuck to the ceiling above you. You wake up slow, the dream you try to shake off, this dream of death, this dream of funeral pyres, a warrior’s death, a hunter’s death, and you wake up with your breath hitching, your eyes crusted over. There’s a hand on your chest, you can feel it, this perfect outline, these perfect one two three four five fingers, these nails like crescent moons, but you can’t remember what to do, these instincts that always seem to fail you when you need them the most, and there’s a mouth on yours, and it’s soft, and it’s nice.

There’s Sam’s mouth on yours, tasting sweet, and you’re sure you’re supposed to push him off, right, because this isn’t exactly natural, but the way he cups your chin with his other hand, the way he swipes his tongue across your lips, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t been wishing for this. You’d be lying if you said you never thought about this, Sam and the way he moves closer to you, the way he slides his thumb across your cheek, you’d be lying if you said you never wanted this.

Sam and his rose colored mouth, your eyes open, your hands moving slowly to frame his ribs, to wrap around his waist, Sam smiles above you, against you, and kisses harder, kisses longer. Sam and the way he’s always wanted a normal life, the way he’s lost everything that’s ever meant something to him, you’re making this worse, the way you kiss him back, the way you move underneath him, you’re making this harder and harder for him to walk away. Sam and his nine to five job, the two point five kids he’s always wanted, the white picket fence, you’re making this so much worse, and he doesn’t even know it yet. He doesn’t even realize it.

The way you kiss Sam back, his body so careful of yours, his delicate hands, the way he avoids your stomach, the bandages underneath your shirt, the blood you know is there, the red stains, you’re hurting him so bad right now and the sad thing is he’s not even aware of it. Your stupid dreams, your stupid hopes and wishes, you’re killing him and he won’t ever know.

***

The day Sammy runs away to Stanford, the day you think you lose him forever, standing against the Impala, slick, wet from the rain, you never thought you’d be burying your father four years later. His sweet smelling cologne, the damp packet of cigarettes he holds in his hand, the little silver lighter, you never thought getting your brother back would have such a big price. You never thought you’d ever have to choose.

The day Sammy runs away to Stanford, the day your father leaves his mark on you, his protection, the tattoo that snakes up your arm, this symbol from his journal, the day your father lets Sammy go, you never thought that this would all be for nothing. You never thought this would all be such a waste. Your stupid little family of martyrs, sometimes you just get so fucking sick of this. Sometimes, you just have no idea why you even bother anymore, not when your father’s life is ruined, not when Sammy’s life is ruined, his sweet little shattered dreams, the nine to five job he’ll never have, that pretty wife he’ll never marry. Sometimes, you just wish that your father had been more selfish, all those suicide missions, all those kamikaze hunts, sometimes, you just wish he wouldn’t have given his life for yours.

It’s your fault, really, your father’s stupid sense of pride, of honor, yeah, he was the one who made the deal, but it’s your fault for putting him in that position, your moment of weakness, the way you’ve never been able to save your family, the way you’ve never been the hero, this is all your fault. And, honestly, you’re so used to that by now, it’s not even funny. Honestly, you don’t even worry about it, anymore.

Sammy never knew your father like you did. All those times they fought, Sam’s little rebellions, the normal life he’s always craved, all those books he hid under his mattress, all those notebooks filled with homework assignments and essays and reports, the blue and black ink, all those forged parental admission slips, Sammy never even tried. Later, you’ll realize that Sammy never really looked past the bottles, to the pain there, never even tried to understand because he couldn’t, not really, not when it was all about a mother he couldn’t even remember. And, honestly, your father and the way he never even talked about her, not even when you’d ask, the tears that would fall down your chubby cheeks as a child, your mother’s rosary clutched in your little hand, really, Same could never understand, honestly, not when it was about a mother he never even knew.

Later, you’ll realize that Sammy never knew your father because he was just never there. All those clubs he joined, all those days spent studying in the library, the odd jobs he’d get just to scrape by enough money for textbooks and school supplies and software for his computer, the money you know your father would have spent on ammo, Sammy made sure he avoided you two like the plague. And maybe that’s what’s eating away at him now, the frown that he wears sometimes when he thinks you’re not looking, the way he chews on his ragged lip until it starts to bleed again, the way he picks at the holes in his clothes, the torn threads, maybe that’s what he’s so worried about. All those times he never got to know your father, never got to talk to him, be with him like you did, maybe that’s why he cares so much about you now, your stupid little brush with death, your stupid little act of martyrdom, maybe that’s why he’s doing this.

His mouth on yours, part of you is tempted to just let it go, to just let it slide, because this is exactly what you want, this is exactly what you need, and maybe it’s time you just started being more selfish. Maybe it’s just time you stopped falling in line, stopped playing the martyr, because, hey, your stupid family legacy, your own little personal triumph, and look what happened to your father. Sammy’s fingers brushing your chin, this is everything you’ve wished for, Sam’s crushed dreams, the way you’ve destroyed everything you’ve touched, Sammy won’t ever be normal, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have what you want. And, honestly, the way Sam loves you because he never even knew you, because he never even tried, the way he loves you because he’ll never be able to love your father, not again, not anymore, because you’re the only one who will ever understand how he feels, part of you wants to take advantage of that so bad. Part of you doesn’t even want to care, the way you just can’t let him go, the way your instincts tell you to never lose sight of him again, Sammy and his stupid little disappearing acts, part of you wants to keep him with you forever.

Part of you wants to grab him tight and never let go, even if it kills him.

The day Sammy runs away to Stanford, the day your father tells you that he’ll never leave you, no matter what, your stupid family full of liars, of martyrs, the day you realize what a big colossal waste all of this is, all of this shit, you stand in the rain and realize that nothing will ever go as you planned. The way the water runs in rivulets down your face, masking your tears, your father’s soggy cigarettes, the death sentence that hangs above his head, the way you never even knew, not then, the day Sammy runs away for what seems like ever, you realize that nothing will ever be okay. Your stupid family, you realize that no one’s ever told you the truth.

The mud that coats your boots, the shivers running up and down your spine, the cold wind there, ruffling your wet hair, the day Sammy runs away from you, from your father, the day he takes that bus and never looks back, the day your father lies to you, seals his deceit with the symbol on your arm, all that pain. The day he promises you that everything will work out, that he’ll never leave you, the way he looked you straight in the eye, the way he told you that you’d end up the hero here, the savior, that you’d be the one to set everything straight. The day your father told you stories of a life you’ll never even live, his solemn face, the way he smells like shaving cream, the way he smells like sweet cologne, whiskey on his breath.

The day that Sammy runs away to Stanford, this smell of cigarette smoke that has seared your nostrils ever since your father died, that’s the day you realize that you’ll never be the hero. That’s the day you realize that nothing will ever be alright.


End file.
